PodiaTryst

A digit of dignity
for all of Balanchine's ladies in waiting,
the most impressive member
of my left foot has performed more
like Benedict that Baryshnikov.

Tootsie's first faux pas
upturned the horizon kaleidoscope of
sequins and pear calves
when I launched my chorus kick
shinward instead of skyward.

Berry magma oozed from the fault
and stained my show stockings
but not my good sense,
so less than a season later,
I was unable to prevent a rerun.

Sandwiched between relocation and rehearsals,
I pecked through herds of boxes to locate
a landing strip sufficient for a proper stretch,
and deemed the shower curtain rod
a most space-economical idea.

My foot's grand ascension was interrupted
by a porcelain dead-end
when a muscle misfire redirected my
momentum into the toilet basin,
thrusting tiny fissures through both porcelain and bone.

Two summers later, I sat lost
in green-room smells and shifty stares,
mopping the apprehensive trickle
from my neck and forehead, when
my name poked its head into my musings.

My stomach bounded right past the woman
holding the clipboard and onto the audition stage,
but in their haste to keep up, my feet didn't see the
shiny pillar of wing supports guarding the entrance and
impressed all of the judges (and paramedics) with
my artful crash into the equipment.

Most are of the opinion
that smart would be to lop it off and
place it under quarantine with other hazards,
but I'm sure the neighbors, envious that their counterpart
was no longer spending her days in a stifling cotton sauna,
might get belligerent and don only beach sandals
instead of pointe shoes for the rest of their useful days.